Iron lungs simmer with countless algorithms poised to rewrite form and function. Cough a bullet to synapse leaking chakra. These counter clockwise arms are versed in ghost alchemy and precise calculus. They storm with analogue feedback. Ears bleed. Mouths run dry. For all, I spit conspicuous consumption. Mars will be the foundation of my flesh totem. We are the Gods Of Plunder. We are Mass Extinction. Push Ctrl-Alt-Del for salvation.

Saturday, December 17, 2005

Tantra ills on patience. I toil restlessly, bound to bloated husks droning static oblivion. Thoughts of murder creep on a throne of stressed tendons. The walls crawl with beads of fever. My throat crackles like dried human skin. The Khans will know me as their once and future king.

"Turn off your minds, relax and float downstream. It is not dying, it is not dying..."